


no words

by bubbleteabunny



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, first words of your soulmate are written on your arm AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 11:06:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11401242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubbleteabunny/pseuds/bubbleteabunny
Summary: Peter wonders if he's defective, because there are no words on his arm, the way there are words on everyone else's.





	no words

At this point in time, Peter doesn’t think he can be blamed for thinking that it’s all a load of bullshit.

And honestly, he’s growing damn tired of it all.

He hates that he sees the words everywhere. When people wear short sleeves at school, if they angle their arms a certain way, Peter can see from three desks away, even from across the classroom, those one or two lines of text imprinted on the skin of their forearm, dark black and a constant reminder. A reminder to them that they’ll hear those words somewhere, from someone special. A reminder to Peter that he’s different, that maybe whatever god is out there overlooked him. On accident? Maybe. On purpose? Surely— _hopefully_ —not, but enough time has gone by that Peter is starting to accept that perhaps it had been.  And he doesn’t feel anger, he doesn’t feel sadness. He doesn’t feel anything.

It doesn’t especially help that one of Aunt May’s friends they sometimes have dinner with never stops talking about the words on his own arm, which are in French, and feels the need to retell his first encounter with his now wife every. Single. Time. Peter’s not entirely sure if the guy has short-term memory loss or he just really likes to rub it in.

“It was frustrating at first to realize my soulmate and I didn’t even speak the same language! I’d never even  _heard_  a word of French my whole life!” This friend, his name is Liam, had exclaimed with a laugh. “Spent a good couple of years learning French backwards and forwards, even went to visit the country a few times, only to find out she was a waitress at the French restaurant down on Main!” The story always concludes with Liam slapping his knee, bright smile plastered on his face. It feels like a punch in the gut.

Aunt May knows how Peter feels about this, knows about the absence of the precious words on his forearm, a blank slate. She’d smile sheepishly and steer the conversation in a different direction. Peter continues to distract himself with his food, and while he chews on his salad or his pizza or whatever it might be that night, he bitterly stares down at his left arm, where there are no words. He has no words.

———

It’s a bright Saturday morning when Peter finds out he’s getting new neighbors. He steps out of the apartment, earphones around his neck and skateboard in his arms, to find the door to the apartment on his right is wide open. There are a few boxes stacked against the corridor wall. He’s about to walk past quickly so as not to get in the way, but pauses as a lady walks out to grab one of the boxes. She smiles brightly at him.

“Good morning,” she greets kindly.

Peter smiles back, giving a small wave with his free hand. “Morning.”

As soon as the lady retreats back inside the apartment, you come out, head ducked as you go straight for another one of the boxes. Peter watches you closely, and though your face is covered by your hair from the side, he’s perfectly content to note the smoothness of the [hair color] locks. When you turn back around, you meet his gaze, and he blushes heavily. There would’ve been no way to look away quickly and pretend he was looking at something else, for there’s not much in the bland hallway to even remotely pretend to be interested in. 

Your eyes are a pretty [eye color], timid and warm. You smile shyly in greeting, and Peter smiles again, albeit this time rather nervously.

“Hey,” he says simply. And did his voice just crack?  _Nice one, Peter._

You nod slightly in a silent greeting, though the smile never leaves your face. And then you’ve walked back into the apartment. Before you can come back out again and think that he’s a creep for continuing to stand there for no reason at all, he rushes past the door and walks over to the elevators.

Peter has no problem with admitting you’re probably the prettiest girl he’s ever seen in his whole life. And he considers himself lucky to live next door to you, for he often sees you when you happen to both arrive home at the same time. He’s never had much courage to say anything to you, afraid he’d embarrass himself even more than he had the first day. He managed to screw himself over after only saying one word. He probably deserves some sort of reward for that. Because that’s a thing, right?

He guesses he isn’t exactly being subtle about the whole being attracted to you thing, since May’s picked up on it. He thinks about trying to deny it and make up excuses, but he’s already hiding the fact he’s Spiderman, and he decides he should give Aunt May at least this one thing.

“Have you talked to her yet?” she asks one morning as she wipes down the counter.

Peter plops down at the table in the kitchen and starts to eat the breakfast she’d prepared. “Who?” he asks around a mouthful of food, trying to play dumb.

She looks at him, an eyebrow raised and a small smile on her face. “You know who.”

Peter shrugs. “I haven’t gotten the chance to yet.”

“Oh come on. You have to talk to her soon.” Aunt May sits across from him and chuckles. “She’s cute.”

Peter huffs through his nose as he swallows. He picks up the glass of milk, and before he takes a swig, he states stiffly, “The words, May.”

This sentence requires no further explanation. Said woman frowns slightly as she continues to watch her nephew, whose eyes are downcast at his food, a signal that he no longer wants to carry on this conversation. Peter isn’t actually sure what the words on your own arm are. Every time he’s seen you, you’ve been wearing a jacket or sweater. The weather in New York has been awfully cold lately. But it still doesn’t change the fact that there’s nothing on his arm. You belong to someone else. Simple as that. And it sucks.

“Well, talk to her still,” Aunt May continues. “I talked to her mother the other day and she said they were from out of town. She could use a friend.”

Peter sets down his glass and shrugs. She smiles at him once more before standing up to get ready for her day. That signals the end of the subject.

———

The whole day at school is spent with Peter silently convincing himself to talk to you when he gets back. It can’t be  _that_  hard. He could start with introducing himself, since he’d never given you his name. Yeah. That sounds like a good idea.

During the ride up in the elevator to his floor, he stares hard at his reflection in the shiny metal doors, trying to calm his rapidly beating heart. He should  _not_  be getting this nervous.  _Get a hold of yourself, Parker._ The idea that Spiderman could get so incredibly flustered at the notion of talking to a girl is only  _slightly_  amusing. It’s more embarrassing than anything though.

When he gets out of the elevator, he makes a beeline for his apartment, prepared to see you unlocking the door to your own. When he rounds the corner, he collides none-too-gently with another person, and he hears a flurry of papers as they fall to the floor.

“I am  _so_  sorry!” he apologizes profusely, immediately bending down to help pick up the strewn about sheets. He glances up momentarily to see who he’d bumped into, and he feels ten times more awkward about the situation when he realizes it’s you.

You don’t say anything, not even an “it’s okay,” as you focus on gathering the papers, and Peter wants to hit his head against the wall—multiple times. Great. How is he supposed to fix this one? When he hands you the rest of the papers and you both stand back up straight, he just decides to see the whole thing through.

“I-I’m Peter,” he introduces, small, anxious smile on his face. His heart is pounding, and that smile of his probably looks more like a pained cringe.

You stare up at him, eyes wide, and you avert your gaze momentarily to the papers in your hands. You bite your lip in thought, and Peter grows nervous that perhaps you’re trying to formulate a polite way of telling him you have no interest. His mind is a flurry as he tries to decide if he was being too forward. How could he have been? All he’d said was his name! But… he also had just run into you. If nothing else, he’d at least be proud to be your first friend here in New York, if someone else hadn’t beaten him to it.

When you finally look back up at him, he feels his heart skip a beat. Your [eye color] orbs are vivid and he feels like he could stare at them forever, if you allowed him to. But then he notices you raise a curled fist to your chest and move it in a circle. Then you use your index finger to point at your ear, then at your mouth. To finish it off, you shrug theatrically, and you continue to watch him, hoping he’d understood.

And Peter had. Perfectly well. The smile on his face is so wide it almost hurts and you probably think he’s pretty weird for looking so excited, but he can’t help it, because you have no words either.


End file.
